


this is gonna be torture (before it's sublime)

by oculeius



Series: pang [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bodhi Rook Lives, Bodhi Rook Needs a Hug, Bodhi has a crush, Bounty Hunter Reader, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Rogue One, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Rogue One Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oculeius/pseuds/oculeius
Summary: When they think you are out of earshot, Melshi mentions the price on Bodhi’s head, modest but climbing steadily the more useful he makes himself to the Rebellion.You’ve seen his number, too. But you’re determined not to see it again. You don’t need any kind of temptation surrounding Bodhi Rook. None that you can consciously prevent, anyway.
Relationships: Bodhi Rook/Reader, Cassian Andor & Jyn Erso & Bodhi Rook, Cassian Andor & Jyn Erso & Chirrut Îmwe & Baze Malbus & Bodhi Rook, Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso, Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus
Series: pang [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019775
Comments: 22
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> or five times Bodhi Rook wants to kiss you, and the one time you beat him to it.
> 
> wellllll here we are,,,,,, who woulda thought i'd be writing bodhi rook fics,,,
> 
> (we knew. we all knew)
> 
> what started as me musing about my star wars OC - and a character study of the members of rogue one - quickly and senselessly evolved into this incredibly self-indulgent fic. because i miss bodhi. and all of rogue one really. so...
> 
> it goes without saying (unless you missed the tags) that i have chosen to ignore canon for this bad boy ;) everyone is alive, thank you very much. and if my festering rogue one obsession is any indication, this work will probably be part of a series [quiet maniacal laughter]
> 
> huge HUUUUGE thanks to my BURPS - if u know u know. u kno?
> 
> i've tried to keep the tags relevant! pleeeease let me know if there's anything i left out and need to tag.
> 
> title from OCEAN OF TEARS by caroline polachek

He’s twitchy. Restless. Nervous. 

His nerves make _you_ nervous.

His hands shake at all times. It is a constant, ever-present tremor that he seems more than happy to ignore - and everyone else with him. 

He is steady, and still, only in the pilot’s seat of his ship. He channels that shake into the press of a button, the twist of a dial, into a firm grip on the controls. There, his long, spindly fingers, the heel of his palm… they find their purpose. 

There... and at the sabacc table. His innocence gives way to something sure, and _smart_ , and reckless. And he beats you every time. He beats everyone. And he collects his chips with his spindly fingers, rakes his pilfered credits into his lap with the heel of his palm, and the innocence returns by way of a crooked little smile. That, too, is twitchy. Just enough to make it endearing. 

You take it the worst out of everyone, that first time you lose. You had started to grow fond of this rebel, this defector, this _pilot_. You had underestimated him. Confused his silence for meekness. 

You will not make that mistake again. You will not let his crooked smile disarm you. Or his huge eyes that toe the line between brown and black. You will not flinch when they dart across your face, searching and checking and _asking_ and wondering all at once. You will, in fact, stare right back, take in as much of him as he seems to of you. Outside-in seems the best way to learn about Bodhi Rook anyway.

The K-2 unit, Captain Andor’s reprogrammed behemoth, seems to benefit the most from this method. He seems to know him the best, and it’s not as if any knowledge about Bodhi was won through conversation. 

(That doesn’t mean the droid can’t talk. He _can_. In fact, the trick is getting him to stop. 

_He tends to say whatever comes into his circuits—_ you hear Andor say, usually by way of apology, to anyone caught in K-2’s verbal barrage—

But he may be the most forthcoming member of the Rogue One crew. He tells you everything if you stand close enough. Or look too long.)

It is from K-2 that you hear, for the first time, of Bodhi Rook’s checkered past. His lifelong stint with the Empire. You fit that knowledge between the whispers you hear in the halls, the looks you catch others giving him. It reminds you of the looks you get whenever you drop into Yavin, the way the rebels seem to sneer with the words _bounty hunter_ on their lips. Like you’re crashing some party of theirs. Like you weren’t invited by Draven himself to lead protection teams on diplomatic missions, or fill in the gaps that their fallen soldiers leave in their wake after particularly gritty reconnaissance runs. 

( _Ignore them,_ is the first thing Bodhi ever says to you, after your first Rebellion briefing— after you realize quickly that everyone is staring at you—

His voice is soft, a perpetual whisper, but not without bite. Or bitterness, especially as he adds a flippant little _They don’t trust outsiders._ )

It’s strange, you think, that the rebels can afford to be so kriffing _picky_. It’s almost insulting — especially when you catch a glimpse of Han Solo, _the_ _Han Solo_ , and your mouth practically waters at the thought of the price on _his_ head. 

But they trust him because he _stays_. 

And, perhaps, because he had a hand in destroying the Death Star. 

You don’t need to prove yourself to the Rebellion. Your commission speaks for itself. You’d be more than happy to leave them to their little crusade if the pay was not so good. But if Bodhi cleans you out in another sabacc match… you might just not come back. 

“You’re not gonna turn me in for the bounty, are ya?” Solo asks, his lips very close to your ear, after a particularly disappointing match one night. You can smell the Corellian mead, spicy and fragrant, on his breath as you attempt to collect your winnings. “You know how much I’m worth?”

He drapes himself over the sabacc table as if prepared to show you, and it takes everything in you not to laugh outright at his boldness, his boredom. 

The Princess is not around; you rarely catch a glimpse of her, as you spend most of your time on Yavin in the hangar. And what a relief _that_ is, to be spared from her unreadable glare while Han casts his net still wider to try and reel you in. 

“Your bounty isn’t high enough to tempt me, Solo,” you say finally, pocketing your chips and peeling him off the table so you can make your exit. You hope that will be enough of a hint for Han. You offer Bodhi, who sits across from him, some semblance of a smile as you take your leave.

“Not _yet!_ ” Solo slurs after you — and his Wookiee companion roars in exacerbation. 

Bodhi squirms, tugging the collar of his standard issue flight suit. Some of the braver members of Rogue Squadron, the ones dumb enough to continue to play against the pilot, begin to snicker around the table. 

Some Pathfinders have found their way into the game as well. When they think you are out of earshot, Melshi mentions the price on _Bodhi’s_ head, modest but climbing steadily the more useful he makes himself to the Rebellion. 

You’ve seen his number, too. But you’re determined not to see it again. You don’t need any kind of temptation surrounding Bodhi Rook. None that you can consciously prevent, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was coerced into posting an update,,, i don't make the rules.

Andor’s hard edges soften only around his team.

You watch the way his face _wants_ to smile around Jyn Erso, watch him fight the perpetual frown ingrained in him through muscle memory. When he laughs it is a simple huff, a shake of his shoulders, a shake of his head, but his eyes shine with a relief, a wistfulness. 

He is not afraid to put his hand on Bodhi’s shoulder. He is not afraid to defend him in briefings, daring anyone who might want to harm their defector — who would have the nerve to question his loyalty — with a hard glare, one that promises swift and vicious retribution. 

Erso perpetuates this energy when she can, when she is not fighting for her own seat at the table. But she can hold her own, if the baton swinging off that clip on her belt is any indication. It’s Bodhi that everyone seems to worry about. They step in front of him any time he is faced with a new adversary, reminding everyone what they would _really_ be risking if they chose to pick a fight with this particular crew. 

You realize quickly that they are a family. Your chest throbs dully when you see how they look after one another, aching for a sensation that has long since ebbed from your body, that now lives only in your memory. 

You take off after yet _another_ briefing, hoping — against logic and experience — that solitude will chase away that lump in your throat, the one that comes only after seeing people enjoy the things you do not have. 

But Bodhi Rook is following you back to your ship, and you really don’t notice until you have cleared the labyrinth-y hallway that leads out into the hangar, and fresh air, and— _why_ is he following you?

“Sorry,” he blurts after you whirl on him, his huge brown-black eyes fixed rather nervously on your hand, which is clenched into a fist. You were not expecting him. Not at all. You thought he was… well, you don’t know. Someone looking for trouble. 

You immediately drop your arm to your side, making sure he knows that you are sorry too, and have much more to be sorry for. K-2 had made sure to let you know that Rook can scare easily. And you’re not an idiot, you had determined as much yourself. But you knew, from the level tone in his voice, that this topic, the topic of Bodhi, was one of grave importance. 

You see that now. Because now Bodhi is taking a minute to recover, stammering over sentences that already seem fragmented. You stand silent, patient, and hope your smile encourages him. 

“Uh…” Finally he finds it again. Jerks his thumb over his shoulder, back down the hallway. “Cassian.”

“Does he need me?” you ask, shifting on your feet, ready to head back towards the briefing room. “Did I forget something—”

“No,” Bodhi says quickly, his words tripping over your own. He shuts his eyes, blinks _hard_ , and gestures again behind him. “He… he wants to invite you to dinner.”

*

You spend at least ten minutes of small talk wondering who’s idea this was. 

You glance at Cassian, who stands by the lowered ramp of Bodhi’s cargo ship, surveying an expansive pot that sits over their fire. He whispers something to Erso, who turns to glance at you - and you turn away quick, bringing your attention back to Chirrut Îmwe before he can notice your mind has wandered.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says anyway, his gaze steady and straight ahead. 

(He had asked for your help playing chatta-ragul against his Guardian companion, something about moving the pieces across the board for him—

 _Do you think you could do this old blind monk a favor?_ he asks, all but batting his eyelashes— 

But you get the feeling that he knows which pieces will be moved before Baze Malbus has even decided.)

His hand reaches up infallibly and grasps one of his Knights. You squint, and Baze’s eyebrows creep up into his hairline.

Îmwe’s steadfast smile never wanes. He leans into you innocently. “Is this the Pontiff?”

You glance up at Baze, who is glaring back at you, swallowing his exasperation and fighting a smile at the same time. Patiently, you maneuver Chirrut’s hand to the piece in question, and he feigns a little _Ah, I see_ and scoots it forward.

There is a _clang_ and a shout from inside Bodhi’s ship. He’s up there with K-2 and another funny little droid, one you have to assume is also reprogrammed, because how else would you explain his foul little mouth? You hear the droid almost snickering - and maniacally so - and watch Bodhi’s feet pace the length of his ship.

“What am I thinking?” you ask, once it is Baze’s turn again and he is bearing down on the board as if he means to bully it into revealing his next move.

Chirrut takes a nice, deep breath. “You are wondering why you’re here,” he chirps back, not missing a single beat. 

Baze doesn’t look up. You’re grateful for that.

You shrug off Chirrut’s ~~completely valid~~ observation, gazing down at the chatta-ragul pieces. They won’t help you find an answer, no more than they will help Baze win this game. But Chirrut is patient. He waits for you to come back to him, same easy smile tugging his mouth upwards.

“Is it that obvious?” 

Chirrut bows his head. This, you realize, is his way of laughing.

He comes back up for a breath and shakes his head. “We want you to feel at home here,” he replies simply. “You are valuable to this Alliance. You deserve a decent meal, amongst friends, before your journey.”

 _Friends_. You brace against another memory. Push down the vision of your last team, the last people you called your friends. 

You know there is something… other, about Chirrut. You have heard how he fights, you’ve even heard his peculiar little chant, his fixation with the Force. Which is why you turn your mind back to the here and now before he can sense the grief rolling off you in waves. 

If he does feel any shift in your demeanor, he refrains from addressing it. Maybe because he also has something to hide: the truth about what you’re really doing here. You know Erso and Andor respect you as a fighter; you assumed the allowances stopped there. Still, Chirrut is content to keep things cordial… and vague.

Malbus has no such intention. Whatever coy game his partner is playing, he prefers to shoot straight. Which is why Chirrut’s smile only disappears when Baze mutters out, “Bodhi asked if he could invite you,” without taking his eyes off the board. 

Retribution is swift as — _thwack_ — Chirrut swings his staff in the direction of Baze’s towering mass. 

“Hey!” he barks, looking up now, rubbing the back of his head. 

Chirrut throws something back at him in a harsh whisper, something you cannot understand. He is speaking a language now dead, you realize, because Jedha is dead. 

That fact pings in your head with little fanfare. It’s not something you want to dwell on. Especially when it seems like the last thing on the Guardians’ mind as they descend into a petty little squabble, whispering urgently as if anyone here might be able to understand what they’re saying.

You feel yourself smiling just as Bodhi Rook comes scrambling down the ramp of his ship. The smell of Cassian’s meal begins to fill the air like a gas grenade, one that you happily bask in. He must smell it too — that, or the two droids still in the shuttle were proving too rambunctious for him to handle.

K-2 comes loping down the ramp shortly after, followed closely by the little orange foulmouth. The latter is not staying for dinner, much to Bodhi’s relief.

Bodhi, hands in his pockets, is peering past Cassian as he uncovers his massive pot, releasing another cloud of fragrant steam into the humid Yavin air. 

You watch Jyn hook her chin over Bodhi’s shoulder. Together they crowd Cassian, inching ever closer until their captain snaps his stern eyes in their direction. Your heart throbs again when they all descend into an easy little laugh and you have to tear your eyes away.

“You can’t rush perfection,” Cassian says haughtily, pulling another laugh from Erso.

Baze has finally made his move. You return to your duty as Chirrut’s attentive assistant, ignoring the way K-2 is studying you. He has been watching you watch Bodhi, no doubt. This makes you nervous for some reason, but you’re determined from now on to keep your eyes on one thing, and that is the playing board.

You “help” Chirrut get his hands on a scout, and quietly remind him which advancements are available. Out of the corner of your eye you feel K-2 starting to move, not towards you, but to the fire, which seems to be drawing in the entire crew one by one. 

“Bodhi,” he says in an important tone. The rest comes out much too quick for Cassian to step in and stop him, as he usually does— “You’re being very rude, Bodhi. Aren't you going to offer our guest a drink? After all the trouble you took to—”

“I’ll get— will you relax? I’ll get the drinks.”

Chirrut bows his head again. His forehead nearly touches his knee. 

Jyn tries to hide her face in Cassian’s arm, but is hindered by an unmistakable shake in his shoulders. And K-2 swivels back and forth, processing these unprecedented reactions. His face would be marred with confusion if he had more than just one expression. 

Bodhi scrambles to find whatever bottles may be stored around their makeshift campsite, scuffling about against the painful vacuum of everyone trying their damndest not to laugh. 

“Here,” you say finally, desperate to fill the silence with… something. You’re on your feet before you even know it. “Can I help?”

At this, Baze perks up. “I think K-2 took the bottles to chill in the ship” he states gruffly, his expression unwavering and hard, like the stone of Yavin’s temple. He is the best at debunking any suspicion that this crew might be up to something. Though when Bodhi rolls his eyes and turns to stalk back up into his ship, his resolve cracks and he wheezes out a laugh, nearly doubling over the board.

Chirrut swats him away, shielding their game pieces from being toppled. It’s a wonder he manages not to topple any himself. 

He must sense your judgmental squint, because he tosses a little “I can manage without you for a bit” in your general vicinity, and that brings a _torrent_ of laughter out of his companion. You find yourself rolling your eyes too when you turn to follow Bodhi up into the ship. 

You feel like you’re back home again, like it’s your 15th birthday and you’re being pushed into your room with the cute boy who lived two doors down from you. You can practically hear your older sister through the door, goading you to kiss him, claiming not to let you out until you do. You were always stronger, though, despite being the youngest, and ended up wrenching your door open anyway, and boxing her ears for good measure. 

“‘Sending the bottles to chill’— what does a droid know about chilling bottles, for kriff’s sake—”

Enough, apparently. Two bottles sit in a metal tub of ice in the main holding area, and it is as if they’re taunting Bodhi. He heaves a sigh and starts to bend to pick it up, but he’s slow to reach down, his face is twisting into a wince, and you catch a glimpse of a bandage under his collar—

“Stop,” you command, ignoring the little stab of guilt when you see his startled face. You try to temper it by helping him stand up straight again, but it’s only to get a better look at the bandage under his shirt.

“It’s—” He is growing agitated. Or flustered. Maybe both. You try not to make it deeper than it is. You’ve checked millions of wounds, and the bandage that you find is wrapped around Bodhi Rook’s _entire arm_ and parts of his shoulder and chest is no different. “It’s fine, I’m—”

“You got this on Scarif?”

He flinches at that word. You barely know what happened there. Of all the topics K-2 is willing to exhaust, Scarif is not one of them. You didn’t think droids could suffer from PTSD, but Cassian’s reprogrammed giant is… well, more human than most. 

There’s no point in pressing Bodhi for answers. “Sorry,” you mutter, your face a little too close to his. You soften your grip on him, your hand on his neck, and Bodhi shudders shamelessly when you smooth his collar down again. 

You wonder, dimly, how long it has been since someone has touched him. And not even in… _that_ way. You only wonder how long it has been since— 

“Let me carry it.” You say abruptly, partially to just stop your thoughts from wandering. You bend down and grab the bin — dense and packed with ice, but small enough for you to wrap your arms around. 

“No, you shouldn’t have to…” But you already are. And it’s not that heavy. But you get the feeling Bodhi just doesn’t like to be useless. 

“I’ve gotta pull my weight somehow,” you insist, trying to keep that instinctive snap out of your voice. You want to be gentle with Bodhi, even as he strives — however consciously — to prove how stubborn he can be. “Besides, it’s not like I can pay you back for dinner.”

“You don’t have to—” the words tumble out, a redux of the last sentence he didn’t get the chance to finish. You imagine it waiting at the edge of his mind, already formed, eager to be expressed, to show that he hasn’t completely lost it all. He might have expected you to interrupt again. You feel rude, so you just stare, and stand, silent, patient. 

Bodhi is choosing a different thought, anyway. Turns out that last one must not have suited him. “That’s not why we invited you. Why I…” 

That statement, that admission, is pulled under a wave of uncertain laughter. He sobers quickly, though, and looks you right in the eye so you know he really means what he is about to say. 

“Just…” he swallows hard. “Didn’t think you deserved to be alone all the time.”

Bodhi Rook doesn’t know _what_ you deserve. But that doesn’t stop a flurry of warmth from blossoming in your chest. 

Your breath feels short and your throat tight with surprise as Bodhi’s eyes dart away from yours. You take concessions where you can and look away too, down into the bin of ice and glass and alcohol. 

“Thank you,” you say to the bottles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chatta-ragul is chess in case that wasn't made clear! also, who wants to guess what cassian's cooking?


	3. Chapter 3

It is much louder in the Yavin IV hangar once the sun has gone down. It seems to be the only time anyone can really work on their ships with no interruption. Tonight the bustle is especially disruptive — with Solo traipsing up and down the roof of the _Millennium Falcon_ like his last name is Skywalker, barking out commands to a couple of unlucky droids — and the entirety of Rogue Squadron either making their own modifications, or jumping in on the impromptu game of sabacc tucked between two haphazardly-parked X-Wings. When Solo’s co-pilot finally joins him on top of the _Falcon,_ their bickering practically transports you to the Galaxies Opera House on Coruscant. 

You drown them all out the best you can as you tend to your own ship. Staring into the tangled black abyss of pipes and wires and whatever-the-fuck-else lurking in your freighter’s depths leaves you as dizzy and irritable as listening to a smuggler argue back and forth with a Wookiee.

No, you are not a mechanic. And besides a vague understanding of the basics, you can hardly call yourself a pilot. You’re thankful that you’ve never had to test your fighting skills in the unforgiving vacuum of space; any threats to your person have been answered with your fists, your blasters or your blades — and with unquestioned victory most of the time.

But you are completely helpless when it comes to the nature of your ship. And you are just as wary of the rebels as they seem to be of you. You just have the courtesy to hide it. Unfortunately, that means you won’t be asking anyone to help you address the worrying _hiss_ you keep hearing when the engine thrums to life. You hope it’s not coolant. Or… _oxygen_. You wouldn’t have a leak like _that_ , would you? _Fuck_ do you feel stupid.

Your stomach growls up at you, and you regret not eating more at dinner. Cassian had made a delicious kind of soupy rice, slow-cooked with fragrant spices and a menagerie of fish and crab that Jyn had discovered when she was exploring Yavin earlier in the week. You had devoured two bowls in the time it took Bodhi to finish his first (and only) helping, and Cassian — surprised, but flattered, and smiling of his own volition — offered you more but you had to decline. Now it’s one of your biggest regrets. 

You think your hunger might be drumming up a hallucination when you see Bodhi marching — boots in one hand, goggles swinging in the other — towards his freighter. Even from this distance you can see the dark circles under his eyes. 

His shirt hangs open at the collar, the tie holding his hair off his face is coming undone, and the bandage on his chest is starting to unravel too. In short, he looks a damn mess. But you feel an unmistakable stirring in your stomach at the sight of him like this — and it has nothing to do with your malnourishment.

“Bodhi,” you call to him, your voice — _miraculously_ — much gentler than usual. He only looks mildly startled as he walks past and sees you nestled between the hard angles of your ship.

“Oh— hi.” He struggles to push his hair, long and dark and thick, out of his eyes. Hides his boots behind his back. “What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You nod towards the _Falcon_. Solo is now swinging a wrench in his fist, which sends one of the droids skittering away in search of refuge. Then you glance at Rogue Squadron, just as Antilles lays down his hand, effectively winning the game, and sending the rest of his men into a bellowing tizzy.

Bodhi frowns a bit. Whatever his reasons for coming out of the comfort of his quarters, he must not have accounted for the ruckus waiting for him in the hangar.

“Neither could I,” he admits, taking a step away from you to try and do up his shirt. _Too late,_ you want to say. _I’ve already seen too much_. “Thought I could work a bit on the shuttle. The dampeners’ve been under too much stress so I might try and…”

He trails off the very moment he realizes that you don’t really know what dampeners _do_.

But you’re standing in front of your ship, side panel open, tools at your feet, so you _must_ know. You must just be waiting for him to fuck off.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

Something makes you leap into action to stop him. Probably the fear of being left alone with your ship, that tangled, thrumming beast of an engine. “I’m not really… doing anything.” You gesture helplessly at a nest of wires. “I don’t even really know what’s wrong, I just thought it’d…” you shrug. “Jump out at me?”

“Oh.” Bodhi forgets that his shoes are in his hand and not on his feet as he all but charges forward to peer into your ship. You have the foresight to kick your tool box out of his path so he does not buck his toe on it. “Well, what d’you think is wrong?”

You explain the mysterious hiss as Bodhi hurriedly ties his hair back and pulls his goggles over his forehead. “This is a Rhyda-class Magdala shuttle, right?” he asks, voice sure and commanding as he runs his hand over the ship, a wall of weathered silver under his thin, excited fingers. You step aside to make room for him as he pokes around, peering in at the engine. “Ah... it’s been retrofitted… Who switched the engine out?”

“Previous tenant,” you reply casually. You keep the details to yourself despite the fact that a clandestine sabacc game on Empress Teta might improve your standing in Bodhi’s eyes. He seems more interested in all of the modifications your ship has undergone than you yourself at the moment anyway.

Bodhi _hmms_ and the sound of it echoes a little in the engine’s compartment. “Oh.” 

You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing his innocent little “oh.” 

He starts to reach _deep_ into the panel, stretching his slim arms between something you cannot see. This instantly makes you nervous. “One of your hoses is— ouch—”

“Bodhi,” you snap, pulling his bad arm as gently as you can away from your engine. 

He tears his eyes from the apparently _fascinating_ inner world of your ship to watch your fingers wrap around his wrist. “I’m fine,” he mutters, and you know he must resent this fragility.

“You’re not,” you quip. You sound exhausted when you ask, “When was the last time you got these bandages changed?”

Bodhi frowns, darts his eyes away. “I don’t like going down there.”

“Where?” you press, overwhelming the question in a casual tone. “The Infirmary?” And Bodhi _sighs_ , and you know then you are asking the right questions. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Damn these rebels if they’d ever lay a hand on him, if they’d ever be so stupid and cruel and _stupid_ to threaten him, to even _want_ to hurt him. How could anyone want to hurt him?

He shakes his head quickly, nearly dislodging his goggles. “No, it just… the bandages. It reminds me of…”

( _When Cassian found Bodhi_ , K-2 had said, _he recalled that something seemed irregular_. 

K-2 had straightened, and stared off into space for a good long moment. _Had I been there I might have been able to run a diagnostic._

He turned his head further away, haughty and petulant. 

_But no. I had to pilot the ship_.

The ship that saved their lives on Jedha, apparently. The ship that delivered them from the first test of the Death Star’s power.)

You just assume Bodhi has been tortured. It seems to be a rite of passage for most of the Rebellion heroes. But he shoulders it with more difficulty than the others.

Your hand squeezes his wrist experimentally. He does not flinch, only diverts all his effort to glare up at you in surprise, and a bit of confusion, and a bit of betrayal. “Am I supposed to say ‘ow’?”

Cheeky fucker.

“Come on,” you reply, jerking your chin towards the ramp. “I’ve got supplies in the ship.”

He protests but you drag him anyway. You ignore the looks from one or two Rogue Squadron boys that notice Bodhi following you up into your ship, ignore the indignance lighting up in your chest when they start to nudge each other. You know what they think, and this isn’t that. 

Not that you haven’t thought about it. 

He lets you pull back enough of his shirt to slide his arm through. You try to help him take off the bandage, but he insists on doing that, at least, on his own, and you’d be cruel to deny him that. So you sit back, twisting a fresh bandage in your fingers, and watch as ribbons of white fall away to reveal swaths of warm brown skin. 

You chew hard on the inside of your cheek, suddenly eager to get this done as soon as you can. It is surprising that Bodhi does not shy away from you as you peel the bacta patch off his chest — revealing an ugly, offensive burn — and replace it straight away. He stares right into your face when you smooth down the adhesive, and he does not shudder, though something in _you_ wants to. 

Bodhi explains the hiss in your engine as you redress his wound, that your coolant hose has simply come loose, probably from the stress of exiting hyperspace. That tends to happen with the Rhyda-class starships. He also explains, as you help him back into his sleeve, how to reattach it. “Since you’re not about to let me do it,” he adds sullenly, like you’re taking a toy away from him. 

“No,” you reply with a smile. “I’m not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (it was paella. cassian was cooking paella.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for some long ass chapters~

You are gone for two weeks. 

Draven does not make any moves to contact you. You have no idea what the Rebellion is even up to. But it’s not like your life revolves around this pangalactic drama they’ve started with the Empire. You’ve got better things to do, and your contact on Damek takes great pains to remind you whenever you return for your next job. 

What starts as something quick — some one and done target you can deliver with speed in case Draven and the rebels _do_ need you — evolves into a string of _less_ -quick jobs that ping you back and forth along the mid rim in those two weeks. You try not to think about the rebels in that time. About Rogue Squadron. About _Bodhi_. 

He can handle himself just fine. He insists as much whenever you try to help him anyway. With _anything_. 

And you’re sure his team won’t get him into any real peril. 

So you forget about it. Put him out of your mind. And do a pretty good job, until you’re back on Damek within four rotations of your last visit, sitting across from your handler in a seedy little hole in the wall, and staring at Bodhi’s face.

“They’ve upped the price,” G’io mutters, finger tracing a ring around the holopuck. His hand disturbs Bodhi’s likeness and it comes out grey and wibbly for a moment, but you still keep your eyes on his face, and not the glowing red _750,000_ flashing above his head.

“I don’t take Imperial credits,” you say back, feeling your throat tighten. It angers you how perfectly they’ve depicted Bodhi. He looks as kind as he is to you, and his eyes hold that same meekness, that same innocence that he is actively trying to counteract. You fight a smile as you look at him, half-expecting the corner of his mouth to twitch up into that smirk that means he’s just beat you at sabacc.

G’io has the mercy to shut off the puck before you lose yourself. “A bounty like this?” he sniffs, twirls the heavy disc beneath his hand. “They’d probably pay you any way you like.”

You take a deep breath and ease into your seat. “Not interested. And not _likely_. This is the Empire we’re talking about.” 

G’io does not respond for a long moment. He knows nothing about your loose contract with the Rebellion but you’re sure he suspects _something._ Bounty hunters across the board are naturally wary. 

Fortunately G’io knows better than to fuck with you. Than to ask too many questions. He does not press you about the weeks that go by without contact. He does not wonder aloud about private commissions, or ask if there’s competition in the parsec. He does not even ask if you have any intel about the Rebellion — a lead, a rumor, _anything_ — like he usually would for bounties without tracking fobs. 

But that does not keep his eyes — watery and grey and red-rimmed — from studying your face, waiting for you to crack.

He’s gonna be waiting a damn long time for that.

Finally he sighs and pockets Bodhi’s puck. You want to destroy it, crush it under your boot and toss it in G’io’s glass of Bloodsour for good measure. You want to erase all mention of Bodhi from the mind of anyone who might be bored or broke or reckless enough to go looking. 

“I could always ask the Song sisters,” he muses. Your ears strain for the sound of another puck rattling around in his pockets.

“That’s all you got?”

He chuckles. “For now. Come by earlier, you would’a beat Marsden to a couple commissions out by The Redoubt.”

 _Too far_ , you think. Too far from Yavin 4, from Bodhi. But it comforts you to know that none of your colleagues have accepted the task of trying to find him. Atleast he — and the Rebellion — seem to be safe from anyone _you_ know. 

Not that you care about the Rebellion. Not that you miss the cookouts or the sabacc games or the quilted blankets you find on your shoulders when you fall asleep in the mess hall, or even the grunt work. You don’t. You have a life already. And you have not been doing a good job of living it at all. 

You nearly jump when the transceiver on your belt starts to buzz. It’s Draven — you know it before you even have to look. Still, your poker face stays _on_ as you slide out of the booth and clap G’io on his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”

G’io has two men, a scrawny-looking Weequay and a Rodian, stationed at the bar. Neither of them make any moves to stop you — the Rodian’s glimmering eyes linger a very long time on the swords strapped to your back — but neither look happy about letting you pass either. 

“If y’kept your communicator on,” G’io calls over his shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. “You’d be the first to know about any new… developments.”

You take a steadying breath. If he suspects you have an in with the Rebels, you wish he would just come right out and say it. 

“I’ll be in touch, G’io,” you repeat, your voice low and level through your bared teeth. He is silent after that, and you are pushing your way through the crowd and out of the cantina before he can drum up another hazy threat.

Your route back to the garage is deliberately aimless, in case G’io is laserbrained enough to _really_ send his goons after you. You aren’t followed. But once you reach your ship, you pat yourself down in search of a tracker, and scan your ship for the same. You find no bugs, no link-ups — the _Magda_ is perfectly clean. 

That still doesn’t stop you from dropping out of hyperspace halfway to Yavin just to _make sure._

 _This is embarrassing_ , you think to yourself. But you can’t ever be too careful, not in your line of work. And even if you _don’t_ care about the Rebellion, even if you didn’t just drop everything to return to Yavin IV before even asking what it is the rebels want… it’s still common courtesy not to divulge the location of their hidden base. These are dangerous times, after all. 

You make your call to Draven while you drift, and he fills you in on some reconnaissance mission on Wrea. Apparently the Pathfinders requested you personally, as Jyn, who knows the planet well, will be indisposed on her own mission. Your surprised silence is all the answer Draven requires, but that doesn’t spare you from the customary rundown. 

“ _If_ you’re interested,” he presses on, “They leave tomorrow. We hold our briefing in the morning. And…” His eyebrows arch up only marginally. “I know your services don’t come cheap. The mission is of a sensitive nature. As such we are prepared to offer you double your rate, should you choose to accept.”

“I’m on my way,” you tell him, fighting the temptation to say _thank you_ for some wild reason, and shut off the call to set your new coordinates. 

The sun is just beginning to dip behind the rebel base when you land. You set the _Magda_ down on one of the landing pads outside, and your free hand fiddles with the blaster strapped to your thigh as you power down the ship and consider next moves. 

You could go down to the mess. But your stomach still sits in a knot after your encounter with G’io. You _could_ try to find Melshi; he won’t be hard to find, and that way you won’t be completely lost at the briefing in the morning.

Your check-in with the deck officer is smoother than normal. The Ugnaught has always been kind to you, albeit with a distance of mind that seems to plague all busy people. Now the hangar is buzzing with suspense and ships and droids and people — and that means more people to share responsibility. 

You’re pleasantly surprised when one or two familiar faces offer you nods and an unprecedented smile. One mechanic even stops to exchange pleasantries. You ask after Melshi, and she tells you she saw him last in the little makeshift gym past the hangar.

Luke Skywalker is leaving that same gym as you pass by, drenched in sweat but chest high and triumphant. His smile is brighter and more kind than any you’ve ever been given, more radiant than any sun you’ve seen. “Hey!” he says, still breathless and grinning. “You’re rolling out with the Commandos tomorrow, right?”

“That’s right,” you reply through a laugh, utterly disarmed by how eager he is to speak to you.

“Oh, that’s _great!_ ” he juts his hand out towards you, and you take your eyes of the _lightsaber_ on his belt long enough to clasp his hand in your own. “Han’s told me a lot about you. And Captain Andor. Says you’re a great fighter.”

 _Yes,_ you want to say, _but not a joiner_. 

Instead you just smile and let Luke rattle on a bit more — he’s toying with the idea of tagging along to provide air support on Wrea — before he’s gotta run. “Real nice to meet you, though!” he calls, jogging down the corridor like he’s got energy to burn.

This day is, apparently, chalk _full_ of surprises, because there is another waiting for you in the sparring gym. 

Melshi is nowhere to be seen. But there is Chirrut. And Baze. 

And _Bodhi_. 

His back is turned but you would know him anywhere. His hair is piled high in a bun atop his head and his bandages are long gone, as is his baggy flight suit. Instead he wears a tight black standard shirt with shirred sleeves that bares his shoulders and arms — taught with a _surprising_ layer of wiry muscle — and loose, flowy pants he _must_ have borrowed from Chirrut. 

Chirrut, just as you suspected, _can_ fucking see. You don’t know how, and you’re scared to ask, but he is moving with a surety and trust that few people with eyes even use. He is sparring with Bodhi, and you know after just seconds of watching that _he_ is the master. Bodhi’s form is alright, but his reflexes are slow, and Chirrut is definitely going easy on him. 

Baze polishes his rifle in the corner. He only looks up when Bodhi is struck or overpowered by Chirrut, because the decisive _smack_ of Bodhi toppling onto the mats is just too good to miss, apparently. 

When Chirrut thwacks his staff into the crook of Bodhi’s left knee and he goes down, Baze’s head snaps up — but he catches you in the corner of his eye, and his face _actually_ splits into a grin.

“Little sister!” he crows, abandoning his weapon and his rag as he stands and makes his way towards you. 

You almost do a kriffing double take. He can’t be referring to _you_. 

Unfortunately there’s no time to clarify. Before you can even protest — and just as Bodhi is spinning around to see you — Baze is enveloping you in an _actual_ hug. 

Your swords press awkwardly into your spine but you have no right to complain. This surprising display of warmth, from _Baze Malbus_ of all people, has you kind of grinning too. 

“You’ve been gone a very long time,” Chirrut chides, and the sentiment seems to echo on Bodhi’s face as Baze lets you go and he gets to his feet. 

“Well, Rebellion errands don’t pay _all_ the bills.” You flash a quick and skittish smile at Bodhi, trying not to think about that last time you saw his face, barely a few hours ago, and the price on his head when you saw it. There’s no point on dwelling on it anymore. Not when the real thing — _him_ , flesh and blood and flushed cheeks and brown-black eyes — is right in front of you. 

Not when he is safe. 

“What happened to my old, blind monk?” you ask, tearing your eyes finally from Bodhi to address Chirrut’s deception. 

Chirrut smiles a knowing smile. “I _am_ blind,” he insists. “It is the Force that allows me to see.”

“Everything?” You want to ask if he can see your face, or the grey hair beginning to streak his partner’s black braids. 

Chirrut pokes Bodhi with the butt of his staff and he immediately corrects his posture, his eyes still fixed on you. “ _Most_ things.” Then he nods in Baze’s direction, and you don’t notice he is standing right behind you until he is relieving your swords from the sheath on your back. 

“Hey!”

Baze is practically giggling as he jogs away— “Twin swords,” he calls to Chirrut, who nods appreciatively. “Curved blade. Embossed hilt,” he continues. “The design of a serpent. Looks…”

“Magdalian,” you finish, thinking of how ridiculous it is to be chasing a 50-something year old retired assassin around the room. 

Finally he stops, regarding your weapons with even more reverence than before. “They are ceremonial.”

“They can be,” you say, forcing a casual shrug. “Only two blades have been made. You’re looking at ‘em.”

Now he holds them like they might break. 

Chirrut inches closer, to run his hand along the metal. “They were entrusted to the two leaders of the Queen’s Guard, on Magdala. Passed down.” 

The air is suddenly charged with more questions. Why _you_ have them. _How_ you ended up with them. And what happened to the previous owners. Hell, what happened to the Queen’s Guard on Magdala. Where Magdala even _is_. It’s not a place at the forefront of most people’s minds. But you are more than happy to keep it that way. 

Baze does not ask and neither does Chirrut. Maybe he has inferred the answers through the Force. Maybe he doesn’t _need_ answers. 

( _All is as the Force wills it._

You remember the first time you saw his mischievous grey eyes. The first time you heard his mantra.

 _I am one with the Force…_ )

Baze finally returns your weapons, holding them by the blade so you can grab the hilt, and Chirrut flashes a smile in your direction. 

“Let’s see what you can do with them,” he says, and it’s not a request. 

You gawk at the Guardian as he saunters easily — almost cockily — to the center of the mat, tapping his staff at his feet, like you are meant to follow him to that very spot. 

“Are you sure?” One look at Bodhi, who is rushing to clear the mat and join Baze on the sidelines, confirms your fears/suspicions. 

You sigh, determined to go easy on Chirrut as you take your blades, one in each hand, and shuffle over. He is whispering under his breath, his favored mantra growing louder the closer you get.

(... _and the Force is with me. I am one with the Force and the Force is with me. I am one with the Force—_ )

He stops abruptly. His head is bowed but you can still see him smiling. When he looks up again, it’s like he is gazing right through you. 

“No,” he muses, more to himself than anyone in the room. “Bodhi. You could use the practice.”

Your head whips so fast to look at Bodhi that he twitches at the abruptness. 

“Are you _sure?_ ” the two of you ask simultaneously. He hasn’t moved from his spot beside Baze, and even Baze looks shocked, if not amused. 

Chirrut is not one to ask the same thing twice. He simply stands, and smiles, and waits, leaning on his staff. 

You bring your blades together. “No weapons, then,” you answer firmly. 

“You are free to forgo your weapon,” Chirrut replies — and tosses his staff to Bodhi, who is finally walking towards you. He fumbles to catch it, and throws Chirrut a look that only says _Seriously?_

“But Bodhi will be armed.”

He’s all too chipper about this whole situation. 

You adopt Bodhi’s anxious glare as Chirrut circles you, hands behind his back, eyes closed. You wonder if part of his _seeing_ means he knows exactly what’s going to happen. Does he see victory for his pupil? You’re determined not to hurt Bodhi, especially not that he’s only just fully healed from whatever happened on Scarif. But you’ll be damned if you go _too_ easy on him. 

Bodhi assumes his stance, staff drawing a hard shadow against his soft face. You can’t help but smile as you sheath one sword. 

He charges first. You use the flat of your blade to deflect his blow. “Good,” you breathe, your faces _much_ too close for your comfort. You hook your foot behind his leg and _press_ and he has no choice but to drop to his knees.

Your toes nearly curl in your boots at the sight of Bodhi like this, on his knees in front of you, so you pivot and retreat, give him a moment to collect himself. 

He uses Chirrut’s staff to help himself up, and he squares his shoulders, turns to face you. Your sword twirls effortlessly in your hand. “Come on, then.”

He advances. You deflect. His attacks are clean, if not a little wild, and his form shows promise. Your smile only grows as you lead him through this dance across the mat. 

“You’re taking it easy on me,” he murmurs, after you let him catch you in a complicated headlock that Chirrut _must_ have taught him. You try to break it, but Bodhi simply twists you so that your chest is flush against his and you have no choice but to stare up into his face, stony and stubborn and _smug_.

“I’m not now,” you say back, trying to catch your breath. Now he finally starts to smile. You feel his lungs expanding, pushing up against your chest, and you let your sword fall to the mat. “You win.”

It’s Baze’s laugh that draws Bodhi out of this silent victory. “You’ve taught him well, Chirrut,” he admits, and though Chirrut smiles, he does not seem _quite_ satisfied. 

Bodhi’s gaze darts back to you, that innocence you missed so much giving way to something sure, and smart, and _reckless_.

You pull away the second you feel Bodhi start to relax. Disappointment colors the surprise on his face, but you try to remind him, without words, where you are, and who you are in front of, as you step out of the lock that was quickly becoming an embrace. 

“There is still much work to be done.” Chirrut watches the two of you closely. You cannot read the expression on his face, and you’re not sure you want to. You swear that any moment he or Baze will notice your red cheeks and start to tease you.

But Chirrut does not tease. He slides his foot beneath your sword and kicks it up into his hand. 

_Show off_. He throws you a wink and you roll your eyes.

Baze, too, is distracted by Bodhi’s improvement, too busy reveling in pride and surprise to notice the way you were looking at each other.

Chirrut uses the dull edge of your sword to correct Bodhi’s stance, then circles around him until he is content. “You’ve done well, Bodhi.” 

This is the only thing that takes Bodhi’s eyes off of you. He huffs out a relieved laugh, bowing a little at the waist. Chirrut chuckles, and starts to test the weight of your blade. You understand quickly where Bodhi picked up his wild form. You see traces — much more _controlled_ traces — of it as Chirrut slices through the air with your sword. He swings and twirls the weapon like it is tethered to him, like it has been _his_ all these years — maybe even longer than that, like they might have known each other in another life.

“This is an impressive weapon,” he says matter-of-factly, and he really does look fond of it. He retrieves his staff from Bodhi and returns your sword in turn. “Now, if you’re up for it…”

Bodhi starts to back away, just as Chirrut assumes his own stance. “I’d like to see what you can _really_ do with them.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLOOOO oh my gosh it's been 84 years
> 
> this chapter is where things get a lil dark. it's also a long ass chapter WHICH WE DESERVE — heed the tags - and if anyone has tags they think should be up for TWs or anything please don't hesitate to let me know!! obviously thank u all so much for the kinds words and for READING my shit i can't tell u how much i appreciate it :,)

“Where is she?”

You _hear_ Bodhi before you see him, his voice echoing halfway up the hall before reaching you in the med bay.

You can hear the rest of Rogue One as well - Cassian and Chirrut and Baze - their voices tangling and overshadowing Bodhi’s, along with their footsteps. 

You can hear Cassian arguing with Melshi — _How could you have let this happen? I thought you had it under control_ — when Bodhi rounds the corner, when he finally sees you.

He stops abruptly in the doorway, hands shaking violently by his sides, and you wonder if it is because you are injured or because the sick bay brings up painful memories of something else he will not tell you about. 

But Cassian’s pace stutters in the doorway too. And then you _know_ it has to be you.

“That bad, huh?” 

The back of your throat tastes like tepid fire and metal. Cassian sighs and pushes gently past Bodhi, to stand where he should be standing. 

“Don’t talk,” he says, taking your hand and forcing a tone he must think is comforting.

You feel a little prick in the crook of your other arm. More painkillers. Don’t mind if you do. 

Melshi sidles up beside Cassian, offering you his own apologetic/comforting smile. Cassian doesn’t take his eyes off of you, but his grip on your hand tightens and his eyebrows cinch together when he mutters “I want to know everything that happened. _Right now_ , Melshi.”

You know this story - you were _there_ , for kriff’s sake - so you’re content to skip it. You try to focus on your attendant, a female Pantoran with lilac hair pulled back in an intricate zig zag of braids. She peels your shirt off your hip and you try to register the sensation, the tickle of bacta spray, the pressure of her hand on your… wound?

You’re confused. You look to Melshi for answers. He has started without you. 

“...was a karking ambush. Saw’s men were dead before we even entered the system. They laid a minefield right in the middle of the rendezvous.”

 _They_.

Oh. The Empire. It’s coming back to you. 

“Didn’t even make it halfway before we were surrounded. Duluth got caught on one of the mines. They got Tonc in the shoulder—”

( _If it were up to me, Tonc, you wouldn’t be tagging along at all. Draven’s only just cleared you for duty._

You glance at this boy as he straps in. He’s taller than you but somehow looks younger, with an innocence so much like Bodhi’s. 

Melshi is passing him on the way to the cockpit—

_Just because you saved Rook on Scarif— You gonna protect his girlfriend now too?_

Melshi’s mouth snaps closed the second you turn your gaze to him—)

“—had the sense to grab her before she took another hit.”

Ah. You’ve been shot. You remember now. Once, in the side, before—

(Tonc must be good luck, because he finds the strength the grab you by the arm and reel you back out of the line of the Imperial sniper posted in the watchtower—

You open your mouth to thank him, to ask if he’s okay to keep going—

You realize, dimly, how stupid that is after Duluth trips one of the mines, and you all go flying—)

You’re finding it hard to focus now but you think Melshi has finished. You try to turn your head - it suddenly feels like it’s stuffed with sand - and realize Cassian has pulled Melshi aside, so he can scold him in the corner. 

Everything is moving so fast, blurred shapes in your periphery like the view from a ship in hyperspace. You try to focus on something still, something you can _feel_ \- you grip the cot and the sheets and _wish_ Cassian hadn’t stopped holding your hand. “Bodhi…”

Chirrut replaces him quickly. Thank fuck. You feel his hands, warm and calloused and comforting - one clasping your arm, the other hovering over your wound—

“Chirrut,” you hear Baze say, “Let the doctor—”

“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me…”

Baze laughs bitterly. “What? You think you can heal her?”

(There were stories of the Jedi on Magdala. 

It wasn’t like Jedha. There were no pilgrims making trips to pay homage. The Jedi temple had been abandoned shortly after the Clone Wars, years before you could have remembered any encounters with the Jedi. 

But you know the lore like the back of your hand, like the weight of your sword, like your mother’s voice.

Their powers were legendary. Their strength, their speed, their respect for life, and their ability to transfer their own essence, their own strength, to another.)

You cannot tell if Chirrut is succeeding. You cannot feel much of anything, despite the overwhelming, numbing buzz of whatever _fucking drugs_ are coursing through you. But Chirrut continues to whisper _I am one with the Force and the Force is with me_ in a calm but stubborn voice. 

“It’s okay, Chirrut,” you try to say. It hurts to say it. The fire in your throat is still fire, no matter how tepid. The metal you taste, you realize, is the rawness of your own windpipe, the blood in your own mouth.

“Don’t talk,” Baze says over you, in a tone much harsher than Cassian’s. You can only grunt back, a bit miffed that all these people are trying to tell you what to do. 

“I’m okay,” you rasp out. “Where’s Bodhi?”

Chirrut knows the answer before Baze can turn to find out for himself. The doorway is empty, save for the Commandos running in and out, barking anxious orders to each other. Bodhi is gone. And it’s the last thing you think before your strength gives out. 

*

You wake to Jyn Erso standing at the foot of your bed. 

You pretend to slip right back under a wave of sleep, because as soon as you open your eyes and see her, arms crossed, furrowed eyebrows drawing a foreboding shadow over her scowling face, you almost piss yourself. 

You’re wearing a clean change of clothes - clothes that aren’t yours - and someone has thrown a quilted blanket over your legs. Your boots sit neatly beside your cot. The mud is still on them.

Cassian joins her, slides his hand delicately up her shoulder - and you wonder if it is their code, their own secret language, because Jyn immediately leans into his touch. 

“I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t have done any more than me. Or Melshi.” Cassian tugs her away, so that she will look at him. “We couldn’t have known it would be—”

“ _I_ could have known,” she snaps back, soft but _hard_ at the same time. “I could have. I could have seen.”

Cassian doesn’t answer, and you know a part of him must agree. You wonder how many others were wounded, or even killed in the ambush. There’s no way _Jyn Erso_ is this broken up about a bounty hunter she barely knows.

You spend the next two days in and out of sleep. 

You hate how much you sleep. You hate how weak you’ve become. 

On the second day Chirrut visits. He comes right after Jyn leaves. You are awake for him, and strong enough to crack a few jokes. He smiles and dips his head, but his smile does not reach his eyes. 

You ask about Bodhi. Chirrut promises he will come. 

On the third day Draven comes to debrief you. 

“I know this is unorthodox,” he drones, datapad in hand as he pulls up a chair. “And I know some of it might be fuzzy—”

You recite everything you can remember, in perfect chronological order. You knew Draven would come. And you’d be damned if you couldn’t stitch the story together in your mind - not just for his sake, but for your own. The Empire has made it personal. And you leave this out of your statement, but you plan to hunt down that battalion one by one, even if there’s no money in it for you. 

They hurt you. And they hurt Tonc, the man who saved Bodhi’s life, before you knew him. And who knows how many other rebels. No one will tell you but it doesn't matter. You’ll avenge them. Even if you don't know their names. Or their faces.

Fuck. Maybe you do care. 

After Draven comes Cassian. He brings you food, that same soupy rice with fish and crab and spices and _love_ from that first dinner all those weeks ago. 

You have no control over your emotions with this cocktail of medication swirling inside you. You start to cry almost as soon as Cassian sets the steaming bowl on your bedside table. 

Cassian jumps back awkwardly when he sees you trying to wipe away your tears. “It’s just soup,” he says with a nervous laugh. He sits down beside you and takes your hand. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 _Yes,_ you want to say. _It’s just been so long since I’ve had anyone take care of me or want to watch my back or even make me food when I’m sick. I’ve been alone for so many years and I thought having Bodhi, even having those little fragmented pieces once every two or three weeks, was more than I deserved but I was wrong. It’s this._ This _is more than I deserve._

You have no control over your emotions with this cocktail of medication swirling inside you. But you can hold your tongue if it’s the last thing you do. 

You wipe the last tear and say “Yeah, I’m alright,” keeping your admission to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve had anyone, let alone friends, let alone a _family_ , but the Rebel Alliance does not need to know how quickly they have become one for you. 

*

Bodhi Rook can only _really_ remember his mother now. 

She is the one thing his mind goes back to always, even if it is jumbled from — well—

His mother always said he spoke so much and yet said so little. Every word he has spoken since, since Jedha fell and she continued to live only in his memory, he has said to make her proud. 

He thinks she would be proud if she knew he had joined the Rebellion. If she knew he was a war hero. He doesn’t _feel_ like a hero most days. Most days he spends his time trying to counteract his cowardice. 

He worries that _you_ think he is a coward. He doesn’t want that. But he doesn’t think you should see him as a hero, either. It’s complicated, Bodhi thinks. But hero worship is overrated anyway. 

He used to idolize the Guardians on Jedha. He used to dream of being a warrior, like Chirrut, like Baze before he… had a crisis of faith and became a freelance assassin. 

But he’d _die_ before he got stuck defending a temple all his life. Then again, being stuck on the same shuttle route for years, a moving cog in the Empire’s death machine assembly line, isn’t all that different. At least the Guardians were there of their own volition. 

He’s always wanted to see the galaxy. Get off that cold moon and go someplace... else. Someplace _warm_ , someplace lush, and safe, with land the Empire had never touched. 

He has that now. That freedom. That warm, lush land, safe from the Empire’s clutches. But it doesn’t feel like he thought it would. Not with…

Not with Jedha gone. 

You know all this only because Bodhi says it to you, when he _finally_ comes and he thinks you’re asleep - and you _had_ been asleep before he started talking. 

It’s past midnight when he shows up, smelling like a bottle from Solo’s private collection of hooch, pockets jingling with sabacc winnings. You only wake when he sits down beside you and takes your hand, and you hear him ask “How is she?”

“Her vitals are strong,” another voice - K-2’s voice - answers neutrally. You keep your eyes closed, keep pretending to be asleep, and pray that droid does not notice the change in your heart rate. “Cassian says she will be discharged in the morning. He is attempting to secure sleeping arrangements for her so she might… stay. On Yavin.” His tone turns a shade protective. “With us.”

Bodhi only hums in acknowledgement. You feel the pad of his thumb stroke your hand, and his palms are so much rougher than Chirrut’s it almost tickles. 

“Draven could promote her to sergeant,” K-2 continues. “Like he did for Jyn. I’m not sure she needed _that_ high a ranking, but-”

“Kay.”

Bodhi rubs your hand some more. 

“You should speak to her,” Kay says after a comfortable lull. “Studies show that comatose patients respond positively to hearing the voice of a loved one.”

“She’s not comatose,” Bodhi blusters. “And I’m not…”

It’s silent again as Bodhi elects _not_ to finish that thought. K-2 does not argue, though you might want to.

Instead K-2 muses a bit more about Jyn - how he didn’t trust her very much at first, how he was wary of Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze even, until their mission to Scarif cemented their “bond” …and it puts you right to sleep. 

When you wake again you have to assume Kay has gone, because now Bodhi is talking. Just... _talking_ , rubbing your hand and talking. About Jedha, and his mother, and the Guardians, and the temple. He talks about how he never understood that obligation. He’s never had something he’s wanted to protect so much as the Guardians wanted to protect that Jedi temple.

“Until…” he mutters. And then he laughs. Holds your hand in both of his. “It doesn’t matter.”

 _It does_ , you want to scream. You want to _know_.

But before long you feel pressure on your leg. And the warm puff of Bodhi’s breath. You turn to find him resting his head - hair still tied back and low, goggles pressed awkwardly against his forehead - on your lap, fast asleep.

You use your free hand to slip his goggles off his head, and toss them down past your feet.

In the morning Bodhi’s hair lays splayed and free over his face. He must have untied it sometime in the night. You slip your hand from under his grip and push the loose waves off his forehead, and stroke his cheek while you can, while he still sleeps. 

“ _Mmph_ ,” Bodhi grunts, wrinkles his nose.

 _Too late_ , you think.

He reaches up, feels for your hand, and rests his on top again. Takes a deep breath. And opens his eyes. They focus on you, brown and black mingling with hope and _relief_ , and you feel his cheek pushing up into a smile under your fingers.

“Why did you leave?” you whisper.

He takes a long time to answer. And when he does, it is just a weak “I’m sorry.”

You pinch his cheek lightly. “Not good enough.”

He pulls your hand away so that he can sit up, and starts to look around for his hair tie. You wish he would leave it down. 

“There’s no excuse, alright?” he kind of snaps. The credits in his pockets rattle when he lurches towards the foot of your cot, to snatch up his goggles. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 _I needed you,_ you want to say. But that is too much. Say something else. Something less extreme. 

“I… asked about you,” you say dumbly, pushing down all shame and pride just to make room for that simple little statement. “Chirrut said you would come.”

When you look at Bodhi again he is stunned into silence, confused in a way you’ve never seen him. 

_Don’t make me say what I really mean._

Cassian comes thundering down the hall before you have to. You’ve never seen him so furious. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks you, and it sounds like a threat. 

“I— good. Better.” He nods curtly as Kay comes loping in. “What is it?”

“The Council has denied Cassian’s request to procure a room for you,” K-2 asserts. You pretend this is the first you’ve heard of it. “There currently is no available space. And Draven does not feel comfortable promoting you to—”

“ _Kay,_ ” Cassian and Bodhi _both_ hiss. 

“I don’t need a room,” you mutter. 

“Well, where else would you go?” Bodhi grumbles, as if there is only one option. 

“I told Cassian it doesn’t have to be sergeant,” Kay continues, his train of thought apparently uninterrupted. “We could always use another—”

“ _Don’t_ make me power you down.”

K-2 recoils from Cassian, but seems to remember he is nearly twice his height and straightens his posture. “I’d like to see you try it.”

“It’s fine, Cassian.” You adjust yourself in your cot so you can feel your ass again. “I can't stay anyway. Already been gone too long.”

“But you’re still recovering,” Bodhi blurts. “You need to rest.”

You ignore him for now, try to focus on Cassian, whose anger with the Council is starting to converge on you. “I can't keep taking up valuable space here. I probably should have left days ago.”

Bodhi leans closer to you. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

“K-2 _just_ said it: there’s barely any room for _you_ on this base.” You lick your dry lips and try not to look at Bodhi as you speak to him. “I’m not a rebel,” you add softly, like if you whisper that declaration, it will somehow hurt less. 

( _You’re_ _a rebel now,_ you remember K-2 saying after you’d shot your first stormtrooper. 

That was also the first time you had smiled - actually laughed - at the droid—)

“You should focus on helping your own. I can take care of myself.”

No one speaks for a painful moment. Eventually - and abruptly - Bodhi wrenches himself up out of his seat. He doesn’t say anything more as he stalks out of the med bay. 

Cassian’s eyes meet yours. They are just as dark as Bodhi’s but tell you so much less. 

“I understand your decision,” he says, voice finally level. “Kay, stay with her.” He turns on his heel and goes after Bodhi.

*

You are not discharged in the morning. Your attendant hears - and you don’t know who from - that you don’t intend to stay on Yavin for your recovery. 

“I understand,” she says, practically in the same way Cassian said it. “But that just means you’ll need as much rest as you can get.”

Bodhi does not come back. You feel the urge to wait, but something in you knows you won’t see him before you leave.

K-2 gets bored of watching you before too long. 

( _I’m really fine,_ you tell the droid. 

There’s no polite way to say “your hulking shadow lingering in the corner isn’t necessarily the most comforting presence,” but he takes the hint and leaves to find Cassian.)

You spend most of the morning alone. You like it that way. You feel the euphoria of these past few days, the safety of having friends, of being looked after, ebbing from your bloodstream, along with the Alliance’s heady painkillers. Your mind feels clear again. Sterile. You’re ready to leave. Hell, you’re _happy_ to leave. You don’t suspect you will look back once. You can’t afford to.

You are trying to lace up your boots by yourself when K-2 returns. This time he brings Jyn.

“Stop,” Jyn mutters, her hand on your shoulder. She drops into a chair and lifts your foot into her lap. “One wrong move and you’ll rip your stitches right out.”

Quite the bedside manner. You glance at K-2, and you think he would be trying not to laugh if he had that option.

Once both laces are tied Jyn helps you out of bed. “I’ll walk you out.”

You are too smart to fall for this ruse, as good a liar as Jyn is. But you let her lead you out of the infirmary, out of the tangled serpentine hallway towards the hangar. At least you _think_ she is leading you towards the hangar. All these corridors look the fucking same. It might be the meds wearing off, but you don’t know where you are at all. You find yourself grateful for Jyn and Kay, guiding you like a politician in some kind of formal procession, when Jyn’s comlink beeps.

“Jyn.” Cassian’s voice comes out tinny and small. “Did you get the datapad from your quarters?”

“Shit.” This sounds genuine. She turns back to glance at you. “I have to swing by-”

“It’s okay,” you answer. “You go. Kay can take me the rest of the way.”

Jyn pivots effortlessly around your deflection. “It won’t take long. Besides, I’ve been meaning to give you something.”

You don’t know why that makes you nervous. But Jyn is not asking, as much as her trustworthy face might lead you to believe. You follow her down another identical hallway, and it’s a good thing you’re _not_ a rebel, because how could you ever familiarize yourself with this ridiculous pathfinding system?

When you step into Jyn’s quarters, everyone is waiting there for you. Cassian. Baze and Chirrut. Even Bodhi. 

You glance at Jyn, trying not to look too betrayed, and she is smiling like she’s just pulled off the greatest heist in the mid rim.

“You didn’t think we would let you leave Yavin with that gaping wound,” Baze wonders aloud, arms folded loose over his proud chest. “...Did you?”

Your fingers skirt over your _nicely closed_ wound, which is covered with a bandage, _which_ , in turn, is covered by your shirt. “I’m _fine_ , Baze.”

“So you keep saying,” Chirrut chimes in. 

They all start to close in on you, and this feels like the most ridiculous ambush you’ve ever been subject to. Even Kay is guarding the door behind you, and you would laugh if you were not afraid of compromising your stitches. “What is this about?”

“You’re staying,” Cassian says. “Jyn…” he glances at her and something in his eyes sparkles. “We’ve found a way for you to stay. At least until you’re fully healed.”

“You’ll take my room,” Jyn adds. She does not reveal where _she_ will be sleeping, but it’s inherently clear to everyone present. 

You realize _this_ is what she’s been meaning to give to you. Not an old pair of gloves, or a weapon she thinks might suit you better. Her kriffing _room._

That dangerous euphoria is returning. You take a deep breath to clear your head. “You know I can’t accept. I have other jobs—”

“There will always be bounties,” Chirrut says serenely, now pacing the length of ~~your~~ Jyn’s room. “The scum of the galaxy can wait a few weeks for you to heal.”

The only one who has yet to argue his case… is Bodhi. 

You turn to him, to give him a chance to say something. To say anything.

To _want_ you.

The others don’t wait. The arrangements have been made. “We’ll help you bring your things off your ship.” Cassian sounds so cheerful as everyone files out. “But not before supper.”

Already your mouth is watering.

Jyn’s smile has not waned as she walks past you towards the door. Cassian follows her closely, and he smiles at you too. 

You’re not sure how to process this at all. Fortunately your head feels clearer than it has in days, clear enough that you can keep your expression neutral, if not a little stunned.

Chirrut’s hand finds your shoulder without fail. He squeezes, and you feel the words _welcome home_ wash over you, like he is channeling the message through his body and into yours. It makes it hard to see Baze through the tears stinging your eyes, but you know he is smiling too as he claps your arm.

You turn to look at Kay. He glances between you and Bodhi. “Cassian said I had to give the two of you _a moment_.” Your stomach lurches painfully. “We will be waiting by the ship.”

Bodhi waits until the door shuts closed behind K-2, and when you turn to face him he is cautiously but urgently walking towards you from his corner of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, like talking is a race and he _has_ to win. “I know. This isn’t what you said you wanted. But I thought maybe it’s what you _might_ want, and you were just too scared to ask, and nobody wanted you to leave knowing it’s partially our fault that you were on that mission in the first place, and Cassian’s been _laying in_ to Melshi over this entire thing — and I know you’re upset but it’s not forever, and this way I can _really_ look at your ship, in case there’s anything else that’s—”

“Bodhi,” you laugh, and grab him by the collar of his _stupid_ flight suit. He is still talking when you haul him closer to you, and he nearly trips over his own feet before you kiss him. 

His last word dies crashing on your lips. His entire body tenses, and you kind of start to panic. You can’t have misread this entire situation… but you begin to pull away from him anyway, just in case you have. 

Then his hands slip around your back, around your waist, and he pulls you in to deepen the kiss. His mouth opens gently and you let him in in turn, reaching up to hold his face in your hands. You pull back to whisper _thank you_ , and he receives it, then chases your lips again. “ _Thank you,_ Bodhi.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers, his hands in your hair now.

( _I’m just the pilot_.

Only Bodhi’s goggles are visible over the back of the co-pilot’s chair. You were leaning against K-2’s seat during takeoff, during your first mission with the Alliance.

Bodhi continues to glance over at you as he makes the hyperspace calculations. You remember frowning back at him.

 _Keep your eyes on the navigation then, pilot._ )

“Yes you did,” you whisper back. You try to think of another way to thank him, and the way his chest heaves and your mind swims from just one kiss, you might have a few ideas.

“Is this okay?” he asks, tearing his eyes off of you to look around Jyn’s room. “Jyn’s got the nicest set-up.” You nod, and get on your toes to kiss his cheek, his jaw… “We thought it’d make the most” —you peel back his collar, to kiss his neck, and you feel him tremble— “...sense.”

“Yes,” you whisper against his thrumming pulse. You don’t think you have ever seen him look so shocked as he does when he snaps his head back to look at you.

He shudders when he leans down to kiss you again. “We…” another kiss. “Fuck. Cassian’s making dinner, we…”

“I know.” You kiss him back more innocently now, just to _kiss_ him, and smooth the fabric of his suit over his shoulders. “But later.”

His eyes grow impossibly wide at the concept of _later_. You laugh, before you think about his time in the Empire, how everything must have been now or never. You’re sure he never had time for himself at all. The concept of an innocent kiss, of a promise for more, must not exist for Imperial workers.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

But for Imperial defectors… for heroes of the Rebellion… 

He kisses you back, an experimental peck, and grins. “I see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, having a crisis last week: my work is stupid nobody wants to read it lmao
> 
> also me, drying my tears as i read this chapter: what the fuck lmao this kinda slaps huh


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last little piece of this fic.... parting is such sweet sorrow.....

You really could have told Jyn to keep her room. Then again, your injury was most likely the perfect excuse for her to move in with Cassian.

But you spend most of your time with Bodhi while you heal. And though Jyn’s setup is nicer, it doesn’t feel quite right for you _both_ to sleep in her room.

Bodhi helps change your bandages like you did once for him. The dull throb at your side is beginning to fade, and Bodhi does not flinch at the sight of your healing wound. You watch his hands, steady for once without the adrenaline of flight or gambling to distract his racing mind. He is gentle, delicate when he smooths a new bacta patch over your stitches, and covers it with a fresh bandage, and covers even _that_ with a skittish kiss. 

There is something so endearing about the way he shuts his eyes to kiss you. 

You know Bodhi is nervous to do it, to _initiate_ it, every time, but he is braver than most in the Rebellion and he is no stranger to stepping up now and again. His brow cinches together when he does, drawn inward to the little notch between his eyes, and you laugh against his lips every time you see it. 

His eyebrows only come closer together, in confusion and a bit of panic, when he pulls away to look at you. 

He starts to let you win during sabacc games. You don’t know if it’s because you’re recovering or because you’ve kissed; he denies it whenever Solo pitches a fit. 

( _I swear I’m not,_ Bodhi whines, throwing down his pretty good hand. He could have found a way to win with it and you all know it. 

But you rake your credits to your bosom before anyone can argue. _Besides, are you saying the only way I could win is if he_ let _me, Solo?_

The smuggler is, for once in his life, completely speechless. You wish The Princess were around to see that.)

You make sure he still goes to training with Chirrut and sometimes Luke Skywalker. “I can't be your excuse for everything,” you tell him, perfectly content to admire the view as he scrambles out of one of Cassian’s old shirts and into that tight black one with the sleeves cut off. He practically jumps when he catches you looking at him.

“What?” he asks, like something is wrong. Like _anything_ could be wrong. 

You shake your head and kiss his shoulder, then his collarbone, through the fabric of his shirt. 

His breath catches in his throat before you can reach his neck. “A-are you _sure_ I have to go?”

Watching him fight is the only time you resent your own condition. You have not touched your swords in days. You feel empty without that familiar weight, that protection, on your back. So you distract yourself by watching Baze go about his busy work in the corner, watching Skywalker show off with a few fancy flips that make Chirrut shake his head despite a smile. You watch Bodhi’s form improve. It’s unclear how he will be able to handle himself in a real fight, with _real_ stakes and under real _pressure_ , but that isn’t something to worry about right now. 

He takes another look at your ship. A _thorough_ look. You lean against its silver walls and Bodhi is already talking when he pries off the engine panel and sticks his head inside - “...One thing you need to make sure of is— _oh._ ”

He pokes his head out, and he is smiling. “You did a good job.”

“No notes?” you ask, and he shakes his head. You press a quick kiss to his cheek while you can still see his face, and he must be feeling brave, because he chases your lips with his own and kisses you longer than you deserve for a simple hose readjustment. 

You take it anyway. You take all of it. Because you know you can’t stay. Not forever, not with so many accounts still open on Damek. You wonder how often you will be able to find your way back to Bodhi, to this family that has adopted you so quickly, so willingly. 

Jyn, Cassian and Kay come with you when it’s time to check your stitches.

Your same attendant from before raises her eyebrows. “Quite the entourage," she mutters, and Jyn just answers with a smirk. It is easier to read Cassian now, and you know he too is amused when he glances at you. 

“I told you three people was one too many, Cassian,” says K-2, glancing around the almost empty infirmary. Everyone involved in your fluke reconnaissance — or at least everyone alive enough to need medical attention afterwards — has been discharged. 

“Well you could have stayed in the room, Kay.” And for once Andor’s droid does not have a snappy remark. 

Your stitches have dissolved, the Pantoran reports, and you’re unofficially cleared for active duty. She smiles when she hands you a pack of bacta, to apply as needed for the next week. “Hopefully I’ll see you around,” she adds, after more instructions. “Just not here.”

You ask for her name, guilty that it’s taken you this long. “Kika Rhaya.” She clasps your hand. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Jyn takes you fishing. You’ve picked up a few tricks, from your time on your own, but there is much to learn from the girl who spent most of her life on that oceanic planet you were just shot on. Cassian is not making his famous rice stew tonight — _“Can't have you crying on me again,”_ he says to you right before you leave with Jyn — but he still asks Jyn to fetch crab if she can.

You weave through the dense jungle together, and you hate how the air makes your shirt stick to your skin. It is the complete opposite of home: the air was hot, but at least it was dry, and the wind would whip your shirt right off if you weren’t careful. Comparing this temporary new home with your old one hurts you somewhere deep in your chest. It’s that perpetual ache, and you turn back to your discomfort just so you won’t have to dwell on it. 

Jyn asks about Magdala when you reach the lake and have set up the cages to catch the crab and fish. “It’s like Jedha, right? A desert moon?”

You nod. “A bit warmer. We, at least, had a beach.” 

Jyn is turned away from you, but you can tell she finds that funny. It’s quiet, save for the echoing calls of the woolamanders in the trees, as you both take off your boots and your socks and dip your toes into the lake.

The seasons are changing; it’s still light out when Cassian starts on dinner in the hangar. K-2 has been in deep conversation with the computer on your ship. 

“Not as peculiar as the _Falcon’s_ navigation,” he tells you, and seems disappointed.

“Sorry my ship is so boring,” you reply with a laugh. 

Everything seems fine with the _Magda_. There’s no more short-term work to be done, and this seems to disappoint Bodhi too. You really are free to leave now. The sad glint in his eyes is unmistakable and he has to turn his face away from you as he thanks K-2 and sends him off.

You’ve made no plans, you want to tell him. You are far overdue for a check-in on Damek. But every cell in your body is rebelling against that idea, as if you are tethered to this place now, to these people. You see now why Solo stays. Why they trust him. It’s impossible to break free from the Rebellion, from this _family,_ not after you’ve had a taste.

Bodhi still does not look at you as he steps out of the cover of the hangar, walking aimlessly towards the landing pads outside. You don’t know whether you should follow him, so you just watch as he digs his hands in his pockets, scuffs his foot against the pavement, bathed in the pale pink-orange of the sunset. That ache from before is back, not at your side, where your stitches have healed. And not in the pit of your stomach, where your homesickness lives. Your chest. 

_Your heart_ , you realize.

“...Kay,” you hear him call after a long period of surprising silence. “C’mere for a sec.”

K-2 takes his time joining Bodhi, and the two of them are hidden behind the silhouette of your ship, but you leave them to whatever hijink they must be planning, and join Chirrut and Baze as they play their chatta-ragul. Chirrut’s smile grows when you come to sit by him, and he reaches for your hand without looking.

Cassian finishes the meal, and Jyn sets off to fetch Bodhi and K-2. You don’t think anything might be wrong until you hear Jyn call for Cassian. Your heart, before just dully throbbing, threatens to drop clean through to your stomach. “Bring the scopes,” she adds, and you hope it’s not Bodhi.

But Bodhi is standing next to Jyn when you chase Cassian out of the hangar. They all stare up into the sky. And the light is dimming but it doesn’t take you long at all to see what they are seeing. The luminescent spec of a ship, hovering idly in the stratosphere.

“It’s not one of ours,” Bodhi mutters, an edge in his voice as Cassian lifts his scopes to his eyes and tries to get a good look. “Kay’s not picking up any transmissions.”

 _Transmissions._ Your mind immediately snaps to your communicator, switched off and forgotten in the cockpit of your ship. You think about Bodhi’s bounty for the first time in weeks, and are grabbing him by the shirt and reeling him back under the cover of the hangar within seconds. “Move.”

Jyn catches on fast, instinctively shielding Bodhi like the ship could pose any threat to him from this distance. 

Bodhi is slower on the uptake. “What? What is it?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Could be a scout. Could be drifters.” In the back of your mind, you know it can’t be either. You know exactly who it might be, and what they’re looking for.

 _Don’t be so self-absorbed_ , that nasty part of your mind mutters. _You don’t_ know _that it’s bounty hunters. It could be Imperial sympathizers_.

But it takes Bodhi all of two seconds to read your face, and come to the same conclusion.

Cassian turns abruptly on his heel and walks rigidly over to you. “I’ve gotta get this to High Command,” he tells Jyn. His expression pierces like a dagger, but he sounds fucking exhausted.

“Eat something, at least.” You all know Jyn’s appeal will fall on deaf ears, even before Cassian shakes his head curtly, eyes straight ahead and already unreadable again. 

“Kay, let’s go. Tell Draven we’re coming.”

K-2 follows dutifully. He passes the three of you, and you can almost see an apology in his hollow gold eyes. “Please excuse us.”

Baze is looking at Jyn when Cassian speedwalks past him and Chirrut. Jyn’s mouth is drawn flat in a line. You all feel it. And you knew this wasn’t going to last, but fuck. You had hoped for more time.

*

“What are you doing?”

Bodhi stands at the foot of your ramp, gazing up at you as you push a crate of blaster re-ups into a corner. 

“I should go,” you answer simply, and give the crate one more push. “You heard Draven.”

( _This might be the only warning we’re going to get_ , Draven had said earlier, chest puffed out against the fear and apprehension swirling around the briefing room. You were standing near the door, watching the back of Bodhi’s head from where he sat towards the front, but you still heard every word.

 _What are you saying?_ The Chancellor, always recognizable with her short red hair and flowing white robe, stood on the other side of the orb-like table. _What are we to anticipate?_

 _A retaliatory strike from the Empire_. Princess Organa stood closeby, all color drained from her face. Out of the corner of your eye you could see Solo shifting protectively. 

You tried to keep your focus on the Princess, whose eyes had turned cold and were looking to Draven for clarification. _Isn’t that right, Commander?_

Draven had never had problems expressing his professional opinion before. But then it had taken him a good long moment to even nod. _I recommend evacuation. Sooner rather than later. There are a number of options for relocation. Somewhere along the Outer Rim, perhaps. Divide our forces, High Command and the bulk of the fleet..._ )

Bodhi’s expression is neutral but you can feel the irritation from inside your ship. “You’re leaving,” he says flatly. It stops you in your tracks.

You match his posture, hands on your hips, and glance around the _Magda_. “I think I should. I can’t jeopardize things here by staying.”

“ _If_ those were bounty hunters,” Bodhi calls back, almost relishing in the opportunity to contradict you. “It could have been the Empire.”

As if the latter were more preferable. 

“Whether it’s the Empire or not, you’re still in danger.” Bodhi bristles at this, but only slightly. You have never seen him this way. Not a single muscle on his face has moved, not even a twitch. He is still, and quiet, and level, as he stares you down. You'd almost call it progress if you weren't in the throes of an argument.

You ignore it for the time being, much as you might want to comment on it, and carry on straightening your ship. “Your bounty has only gone up.” You toss a pack of rations into your sad excuse for a pantry, and smush one medpack in the corner to make room for the bacta gels you had gotten from Kika Rhaya. “So has Solo’s. Nobody may know where you are but it’s only a matter of time before the price gets so stupid high that people will start to look anyway.”

Now he says nothing. He stares at you, it feels like, for a long time. But before long you hear Jyn calling him, and he turns his face away from you.

“Cassian’s been trying to reach you.” Jyn sidles up to him, and peers inside your ship to see you. “Oh. There you are.”

“What’s going on?” Bodhi asks. Even as he speaks the quiet ruckus of the hangar is stirring, growing louder, and suddenly the floor is teeming with pilots — cargo and fighter alike.

“High Command gave the evacuation order,” Jyn replies, looking less grave than excited. Some action will probably do her good, even if the threat of danger still lingers from that sobering council meeting. “Thila Base. They expect us to be out of here in two days. Shouldn’t be hard.” She glances back up at you. “...Am I interrupting something?”

Bodhi levels an accusatory glare in your direction. _Well tell her, then_ , he seems to be saying. You glare right back at him.

“I thought I’d head out before the evacuation.”

Jyn’s eyebrows creep up to meet her fringe as she takes a step closer, settling in for a conversation you are not interested in having. She _has_ to feel Bodhi’s frustration, because she glances briefly at him before turning back to you. “Really.”

You nod once, and hold your ground. “I figured I’d get out of everybody’s way. I’ve got some shit I need to sort out anyway, back home. Makes things easier.” _For the rest of you, anyway_.

Jyn looks at you like she recognizes those words, like she’s said them before. But her expression changes before it gets too pitying. “I see.”

Bodhi does not stop looking at you. Jyn sighs, and turns back toward one of the Temple’s many hallways. “ _Do not_ take off until I come back,” she calls over her shoulder.

And your standoff with Bodhi resumes.

You cannot bear the look on his face. This is not angry. You’ve _seen_ him angry, and irritable, and miffed, and frustrated, and every shade in between. This is something much further down the line. Further than you’ve ever wanted to push him.

“Were you even going to say goodbye?” he snaps, hands now clenched in fists.

“Yes,” you say weakly. “But if I told you I was going to leave you wouldn’t have let me start packing.”

“ _Not_ true.” His poker face is immaculate, but it finally breaks when he attempts that incredible lie.

You smile in spite of yourself, in spite of this situation. “And,” you add, almost hoping he can’t hear it over the sound of pilots and mechanics getting their ships ready, “I probably wouldn’t have started packing, if I’d had to tell you first.”

Those words clamp around Bodhi like they are a cage and he is a crab in Yavin’s lake, because as soon as he hears them he comes rushing up the ramp and into your ship.

“I’ll come with you,” he offers, and the ache in your chest ignites and it _burns_ and you almost can’t breathe.

“That is _out_ of the question,” you snap. The hurt on his face is quickly eclipsed by something else, something you can’t at all place. “I’m going to _Damek_ , Bodhi. I can’t protect you there.” 

Bodhi squares his shoulders. “Who says I need protection?” And instantly you recognize that look on his face. _Defiance._

You manage to laugh, and this makes him frown _more._ “Please,” you beg. He steps closer to you, and the smell of him, a mixture of oil and tinny metal credits and Cassian's leftovers and _him_ , threatens to knock you over. 

“Who’s going to protect _you_?” he murmurs, and his breath tickles your face, and you think of all the things you haven’t done and haven’t said. The things you _want_ to say.

He is so close that you have to hold out your hand, to press it to his chest, to stop him from coming closer. If he kisses you now, if he so much as touches you, you know you’ll never leave. You would never leave him again if he so much as asked.

“I just have to make sure.” Your voice has collapsed into little more than a whisper. You can’t even look him in the eye. “I have to know no one is looking for you. For the Rebel Base, I mean. And then I…” 

Something _deep_ inside you reels that final thought back into the recesses of your mind. Before you can confess to Bodhi Rook, tell him those four words you have been wanting to say since you left your homeworld and did not look back.

 _And then I’ll stop_.

That phrase has worn at the inside of your mind, trapped in your thoughts for years, digging itself in like a rutted wheel. You never really thought you _could_ stop. No one else you know has. In this profession, you move. And you keep moving, keep hunting, keep killing and fighting and _working_ until you can’t. Until you’re dead.

You’ve never seen a way out. You’ve never _sought_ one out. 

But now, here is the opportunity. A chance to break clean. 

Why are you running from it?

Bodhi pushes gently, _experimentally_ against your hand, oblivious to your inner panic. “You’ll come back,” he finishes. He _hopes_. And that sounds better than the words you can’t manage to fucking spit out.

“Yes,” you answer, your head swimming. 

Bodhi pushes more, enough to take another step, enough to put his hands on you and pull you the rest of the way into him, smushing your hand between the two of you.

“Promise me,” he says against your lips, and his demand makes you shiver. You feel your heart beating behind your hand, and imagine channeling it through your palm, to Bodhi’s chest, syncing your rhythms together.

He must feel it. Because he kisses you without warning, and with complete abandon, and you almost sob into his mouth but you clench the hand between you to stop that from happening. 

You are grasping tightly to his shirt again when he pulls away, yanking an _I promise_ right out of you. You chase his lips, and kiss him again, and you haven’t wanted to cry like this since you saw your home reduced to rubble for the first time, since stormtroopers flooded the streets of your city—

You open your eyes when you kiss him a third time, to etch his face into memory, his brown-pink eyelids and his furrowed eyebrows and the freckles on his nose. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had so much fun writing this, and so much fun seeing you guys enjoying it so thank u so so SO much for your kind words,,, i know i say that every time but thank u SO MUCH FOR YOU KIND WORDS!!!!!
> 
> i mentioned before this will be the first part of a series, one i hope to continue if you guys like my OC and bodhi and the rest of rogue squadron the way i've written them hehehehehe - so hopefully i will see you soon :)


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